


CALIBAN

by DurexOnABible



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DurexOnABible/pseuds/DurexOnABible
Summary: Having seen Donald Pierce get knocked cold by a mysterious mute girl, Logan instructs his companion Caliban to keep an eye on the child while he disposes of the unconscious mercenary before they travel North of the border into America. When Logan doesn't return, Caliban is left alone with Laura and Charles as he tries to ferry her away from the Reavers' clutches, as well as wrestling with the consequences of his past life.





	1. Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to read my other fic [Self-Defence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10720269/chapters/23752578) as a prelude to this one. You don't need to, but I make a couple of references to it here.


	2. Prologue

Far above the dark, stirring waters of New York Harbour, she stepped out towards the night’s horizon, one foot pushing through broken chains. Her robes, as water-stained green as her face, flowed around her – but, much like the glowing orange-flamed torch she usually held aloft in her right hand, it stayed in place, static and immovable. Strong-jawed, with a stiff aquiline nose, she gazed forward with her carved copper eyes to any that would come to her shores. A stern promise was written into her furrowed brow, but her expression, hard in every sense possible, perhaps betrayed a sadness: were her head not empty save for a small observation deck, she may have reflected on that same promise of her name. Liberty: for all, but not for some.

Tonight, her usual bright fire lay shattered, sparks bursting from frayed circuits as her visage distorted slightly on the television screen. A newscaster’s voice, muffled by low-quality speakers, spoke over the top of the image in a bright-yet-serious tone:

_“A week on from the thwarted ‘Liberty Attack’, it has been confirmed that the plot was orchestrated by known mutant terrorist Erik Lensherr-”_

The channel cut to an image of a greying man in his 60’s, peering outward knowingly through wizened features: _“-Who was taken into custody the same night. It has also been confirmed that he was attempting to use what has been described as a ‘radioactive field’ upon that evening’s UN summit. When questioned as to whether he had been trying to mutate the officials at the ceremony,”_

A simple slide-show displaying a text box: _“The Office of Public Affairs responded: ‘We have no comment on the motives as currently stands, but the matter is being investigated.’. We also have yet to hear on whether the sabotage that took place was due to in-fighting or an as-of-yet unknown third-party intervention-”_

“What’s a third party?” a child, small and shrivelled, piped up from the huddled masses surrounding the tinny TV set.

Another figure, similarly deformed underneath his hood, turned to explain: “Means another group of mutants like us. Stopped the Brotherhood from doing their-”

“Brotherhood?”

The hooded mutant sighed and continued: “Brotherhood, yeah, that’s the name of that guy’s group. Anyway, looks like they’re not gonna get anywhere with all this mutant-rights shi-”

“Language!” another voice snipped from the throng.

“AS I WAS SAYING,” They glared at the interruption: “We’re stuck down here while all this squabbling’s going on. To think we almost could’ve had some progress.” Noticing a glimpse of white move past the door to the room, they called out: “Hey, Caliban!”

The man stopped in the doorframe, stooped over so he could see through the low arch. Huge eyes peered into the dark room, filling up with green eye-shine from the television light as his thin, hunched form dipped in to where the rest of the mutants were gathered. Bald and utterly devoid of colour, his face creased as he blearily adjusted to see where the voice came from.

“Yeah, Masque?” He squinted at the hooded shape.

“You seen this?” Pointing at the set: “They were talking about that Liberty stuff. Turns out it was that guy we’d been hearing about, that magn- Magneto, that guy?”

“Wh- Oh yeah, him.” Caliban peered at the flimsy footage as Erik’s face appeared again, next to archived footage of a cloaked, helmeted man – hovering as he enclosed the White House in a broken baseball stadium. The voice on the news channel rattled off a scripted soundbite biography as he watched the maroon form proclaim mutant superiority to his helpless human captives.

“Yeah.” Masque pointed at the floating being: “He was about to turn all the world leaders into mutants. Could’ve made them understand, so’s we wouldn’t have to live in this dump.”

“Dump?” Caliban acted faux-offended, tutting: “Me and Callisto work very hard to make this house a home, mister!”

Masque laughed, a short chortle, and replied: “Pfft, ‘house’. Biggest joke if ever I heard one. So, what do you think? Think he’ll manage to get out and start over?”

Thin lips creased as the taller mutant considered the prospect... then shrugged: “Well, good luck to him. I don’t think someone like him is gonna stay in there long.”

“Ha! Yeah, probably not.” Masque waved him off: “You look like you’re busy so we won’t keep you. Say bye everyone!”

“BYE!” a chorus of hands, all shapes, sizes, and number of digits, waved him off as he said his goodbyes, going back down the corridor.

It had been a couple of years now since they’d all moved down here – an abandoned concrete bunker, presumably a fallout shelter left to ruin after the end of the Cold War, that Callisto had found one day while traversing the tunnels of New York. It had clearly been intended to hold a large number of civilians, which was why its dark and grey halls were able to accommodate them: twenty mutants, of varying ages and powers, with Callisto and Caliban as their leaders.

She and he had discovered each other first: He had followed the nearest ‘light’ in his mind, golden and mercurial like a firefly, until he was close enough scent his way to her; she was shivering in an alley not too dissimilar to his own, clutching the bloody, hollow socket of one eye. After her initial mistrust at the huge, gaunt stranger, and after they had managed to find help for her lost eye, they quickly came to understand each other: both were different, though they didn’t have a word for it yet, and both were feared by everyone else. From there, they had worked together, using his power to seek others ‘like themselves’ and offer them mutual aid and support.

Over time, their numbers grew, and eventually drew the attention of those who had forced them together in the first place, ‘concerned citizens’ eyeballing them from a distance and whispering amongst themselves. Soon, policemen came to their street corners: with batons, with guns, with dogs, and with fear in each footstep. It had been sheer luck that they survived, all fleeing down flights of stairs until they found themselves crowded together in the darkness below the city streets. Some were injured, most had escaped unscathed, but all knew: until the world above was a safer place for their kind, they would have to live below it.

And so, they did. A few would surface at a time when they needed supplies, bringing what they could back down to their new home; once the bunker had been claimed, they set to work filling it with what they had scraped together over those past few months. It wasn’t until Callisto had happened upon H.G. Wells’ _The Time Machine_ on their TV set that she saw them, saw the sub-human monsters living in dank caverns and terrorising their beautiful fair-skinned neighbours of the surface, that she found a name for their little family: Morlocks. Everyone had laughed and agreed, if with a little bitterness.

Caliban set down a box of supplies in his ‘office’, and read off a checklist of tasks illuminated by a flashlight dangling from the wall. He supposed that he himself was the most Morlock of all, by those standards: born with albinism, his own ‘X-Gene’ (as the news pundits had called it) resulted in a level of photosensitivity so intense that more than a few seconds of exposing his skin to sunlight would cause him to break out in blisters and burns. Maybe because of his time down here, away from that prospect, his usual overdressing routine had simplified down to sweatshirts and warm trousers; he could remain beneath while others like Callisto ventured outside for food and medical care. 

The list checked out, and Caliban breathed relief. Trying to find enough for the children, let alone themselves… He looked back down the grimy corridor, to where most of the Morlocks were still rapt with attention at the news channel. The idea of getting back up to the surface, to daylight, and one day to freedom from their oppression – it would be irresistible to them. But, and he frowned at this: if what that report had said was true, that the Brotherhood had been trying to ‘make’ mutants…

He shook his head and, after putting everything in its proper place, switched off the flashlight and went back to their shared dormitories – though not before poking his head back through the door to the TV room and calling bedtime on the younger mutants, who grumbled and said their good nights to the rest before following the taller one back with him. They filed into the large chamber, filled with bundles of old mattresses, cushions, and blankets, settling into their respective beds as their thin guardian loped past them to his own sprawl.

“STORY!” Some of them called after him, arms crossed and petulant.

Back still turned, he smiled and diverted to a modest book pile, rifling through until he happened upon a paperback novel, the cover depicting a young boy on a broomstick with crooked glasses and a facial scar. Scoffing to himself about the fictionalised idea of a ‘magical persecuted minority group’, he nonetheless leafed to the first chapter and began to read the tale to them in his broad, peculiar strain of an English accent. When goaded into it by the children, he began to affect different voices for each character, only to be laughed down and for him to carry on as normal.

A few chapters in, and the throng of eyes around him began to drift shut. Folding the corner of his last page over, he went around and individually said good night to all of them, giving kisses and hugs where wanted and leaving those who, whether he knew their reasons or not, did not want to be touched. Finally, he managed to make his way back to his own corner, wrapping himself in tight and drifting off – the children, the adults, and the Brotherhood still flowing turbulently within his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

Life ticked along like that for some time: the next few months saw more additions and necessities to the complex, such as a few old radiators for the coming winter and a proper power generator. These had been generously donated by other mutant groups that they had found, a loose network of solidarity which they had integrated with organically. Everything still stayed at arm’s length: even amongst their peers, their reclusiveness tended to put others on edge. To cope with this, a few among them would act as ‘ambassadors’, appearing with the money necessary and flattering words – Callisto being the best among them despite, or perhaps garnering sympathy from, her disfigurements.

With this conversing came an even more valuable resource: teaching tools, to help the younger members of their clade along the path to education that they were forced out of prematurely.  In their underground hole, Caliban would have them surround him as he scribbled notes onto an old pane of glass with a whiteboard pen, gently explaining anything they did not understand and wiping away the dry ink with one sleeve as he went. They dove into these sessions, scratching down all they could onto old notepads with the fervour that only starving minds could muster. Starving minds, though, led to starving stomachs – and their food supplies had started to flag, not providing enough nutrients to keep up with the mental demand.

Worse news for him, inevitable news, soon became known: the man on the news, ‘Magneto’, had escaped… and rumours were flying through the mutant network, wondering what his militia would do next and who they would draw into their folds. While keeping to himself and saying very little, he would overhear the others – especially Masque – discussing the matter repeatedly. On occasion, he would be prompted for an opinion, but his go-to response was a non-committal affirmation that yes, no doubt they’d be seeing more of the Brotherhood on their TV. Thankfully, they would take it how they wanted, cheering and laughing as he went on his way.

And that was how he planned to keep things, for the time being. No need to rock the boat.

On that day, Caliban was checking on their diminishing larder when he heard boot-clad footsteps behind him, the scent telling him it was Callisto before he’d finished turning around to face her. Black hair tied in a tight spiky bun, her dark eyes appraised his efforts as he milled around their food stores. A simple eye-patch covered the worst of the damage to her face, with the surrounding scars decorated with an abstract tattoo, which covered one half of her olive-skinned forehead and cheekbone with sharp barbs. Pulling up her ripped leggings and tugging a rolled-up denim sleeve out of habit, she walked over and pulled the taller, frailer mutant into a bear-hug.

“Cal!” She beamed, lifting him up into the air then setting him down roughly.

“Cally!” He chuckled, regaining his balance: “Haven’t seen you all day! How’s the surface?”

“Sunny, you’d hate it.” Smirking at his comically disapproving face, she started back out of the entrance to the larder, wagging her finger at him and adding: “I’ve got some more stuff to get on with but I wanna chat with you later. I think I’ve got some good news!”

“Sure,” He waved her off casually: “See you then!”

The shorter woman gave a thumbs-up, dashing back to whatever needed her attention.

King and Queen of the Underground… that’s what she called them once, having managed to get hold of two discarded Burger King crowns; she’d placed one cardboard circlet on his pale scalp and cackled at the sight of them together, juxtaposed as they were besides their matching headwear. He’d laughed along which her, while pushing down the mild discomfort at the thought of being more than a friend to her. Instead, he had focused on the brief, unadulterated joy on her face. She hadn’t told him much of her life before he met her, and likewise he refrained from his own story of torment: knowing the scars were there sufficed for both, and neither had cared to dig further. To be getting to a stage though, where she could bear to laugh again, brought a little smile to his own lips as he finished his sorting.

Later, after putting their younger members to rest again, Caliban crept along the stale tunnels of the bunker and poked his head through the door to their ‘office’; Callisto had already pulled up two chairs, and had broken a chocolate bar into pieces in a mug on the flimsy table. Seeing him enter, she lifted the mug and pointed it at him: “Want some?”

“No thanks,” he politely declined, sitting down opposite his fellow mutant, who had forgone her denim jacket in favour of the torn vest she wore underneath it. Gesturing to her once he’d gotten as comfortable as he could in the too-small chair, he looked at themselves and smirked: “I feel like I’m in a job interview!”

She laughed: “Have you even been to a job interview?”

“No,” he shrugged: “but they offer you biscuits or something, right?” Moving on after a little snickering from both: “You said you wanted to see me?”

“Oh, yeah!” She put both palms on the grainy wooden surface, spreading them out dramatically: “So, I’d been scouting around the network for that microwave we were after, when this guy comes up to me?” Scratching her inked cheek: “Said he knew about me and the rest of the Morlocks, wanted to help us out.”

“Right, OK” Caliban replied quizzically.

“We talked, and it turns out he’s from the Brotherhood! Apparently, they heard of us from a friend of a friend of a friend of a- whatever. They know about us and they wanna help us out- Cal, you okay?”

“Huh?” Un-tensing his hands where they had been clenched under the table, he brought them up to the top and laced them together, twiddling his thumbs nonchalantly: “Yeah, you were saying?”

“Well…” She frowned: “I was gonna say that we’d arranged for one of their people to come down and meet us but…” Looking him dead in the eye: “Cal, you know you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

“It, I mean, it just-”

“Come on.” She reached over and put one hand over his fingers.

He sighed, a sound like a valve being turned, as he finally conceded under hushed breath: “They just bother me.”

Callisto quirked an eyebrow: “How come?”

“They-” He stopped, started over: “Alright Cally, do you remember the Liberty thing?”

“Who doesn’t remember Liberty?” She scoffed.

“Yeah, that whole thing about turning humans into mutants?” He pulled his hands away from hers, brought them up to examine: “What if one of them had ended up like me?”

“Cal, there’s nothing wrong with you-”

“Cally?” He looked at her disbelievingly: “When I go out in the Sun? I, BURN. I can’t control it, and it could kill me! Do you- do you seriously think that’s not a problem?”

“I-“

It spluttered out of him now, uncontrollable: “They didn’t even consider it, that there’s mutants like me! We don’t all get to be ‘the next step in evolution’ or whatever it is they say we are! And the idea that they’d do that to innocent people, make them like-”

“Caliban.” She hissed, causing him to pause and stare at her, cloudy blue eyes meeting hers with a tinge of uncertainty: “Those people, at that summit? Were NOT innocent, and you know it. This is about-” She threw her hands up: “We’re trapped down here, Caliban! All those humans, their authority? Drove-us-down-here!” She emphasised these last four words by jamming her finger into the table, then went on: “The fact that they’re reaching out to us? It means we have a chance to be part of something, to make a difference! Fight for our freedom! It means a better chance for the children-”

“How do you know?” His head had been in his hands the whole time, but now he lifted it, red-faced: “How do you know that they won’t be made to fight?”

“They-” She paused, then affirmed: “They’d have to get through me, first!” Trying to lighten up, she made to play-punch his arm – but he slackened, cold and despondent.

“I don’t want ‘revenge’ on the humans. Hell, we still technically ARE humans!” A huff of breath: “I just wanted them to accept us, for us to be a part of them.”

“Cal…” She scratched her head: “I don’t think that’s gonna happen. But if we teamed up with the Brotherhood, we could… be a part of them instead. The mutants. I mean, you know we can’t just ignore it.” She slid one hand across the table to him: “It’s what we are.”

The figure of him, long and angular, folded away from her silently.

Sighing: “They’ll be coming in a few days; I’m gonna tell the others tomorrow. Just…” She smiled sadly at him: “Hear them out, okay? They might not be everything that crappy old TV says they are.”

He looked at her despairingly, caught – then bowed his head: “I’ll try, Cally.” He stood to leave.

Callisto raised up after him and gave him another hug then, feeling him stiffen in her grasp, let go and waved an awkward good-night, leaving him in the office as she went to bed. After waiting for as long as he thought he needed to, he followed her into the bed quarters; seeing that she was already sleeping, he went back to his own corner, and tried to disappear into his blankets as he fell into a fretful half-sleep.

 

* * *

 

Of course, the very next day she had barely managed to get the word ‘brother’ out before Masque leapt up in his chair, whooping and cheering. After he’d managed to settle down again with a huge grin on his jagged features, she confirmed that an associate of theirs known as ‘Sabretooth’ was going to greet them in three days’ time. The Morlocks turned inwards, excitedly chattering amongst themselves as plans were drawn and chores were organised, in preparation for their first ever guest. Caliban nodded along, trying to gauge the feelings of each mutant and hoping against hope that even one among them could see what he saw. But as the day drew closer and closer, no other voice of dissent came forth to his aid: all were tired of this place, and all were driven past reason to escape this life… by any means necessary.

He sat up in his bedsheets, peering around the room of resting bodies – his family, closer to him than his own flesh-and-blood kin – and saw strangers. This last day had seen them construct a banner to nail into the concrete entrance: ‘WELCUM SABERTOOF’, made by the children with encouragement from the adults, especially Callisto. She hadn’t said anything past small-talk after their conversation the other night, no words of reassurance or comfort. As he wrapped his arms around his knees, he supposed that their divide in opinion had been deeper than he’d realised: he could hide his disapproval and fear from the others, but not from her deep, perceptive gaze.

Caliban was alone, and the Brotherhood would be among them tomorrow.

He was alone.

He was-

His eyes, wide and luminous in the shadows, stared over to the bundle of little sleeping forms, snuggled together in their corner. They were too young for any of this, and they certainly shouldn’t have been involved in the matter like the others had made them. Pressing his head into his legs, he tried to think of a way he could get them out of the tunnels, away from the extremism the rest of their guardians were leading them into – and fell short, knowing he had nothing to give, not enough to support 8 of them by himself.

Unless…

Staring up at the ceiling, his back rested uncomfortably against the gritty wall.

Unless he managed to find help from outside.

Stony-faced, he stood up from his bed and snuck past his snoring peers; large but lightweight, he managed to tip-toe across the chamber without stirring them. As he put one hand on the frame into the corridor, he took one last look at Callisto, who was contentedly rolled up in her blanket like a cocoon. He felt something tug in him, and he mouthed:

“I’m sorry, Cally.” He paused: “I have to.”

Back in the office, he pulled out a mildewed cardboard box and opened it tentatively. He pulled out a tattered wide-brimmed fedora, a worn and musty duffel coat, a light woollen scarf, and his tiny leather gloves. He pulled each item on, breathing into the stale fabric of the scarf and smelling the cloying age in it. When ready, he stepped towards the exit of the tunnel and pondered this place: a home he had made with his closest ally, when all other doors were shut. Now, he closed himself out from it and walked away.

A lone CCTV camera watched, with one grainy monochrome eye, as a heavily-dressed man climbed the stairs out of the well-lit subway entrance and wandered off into the streetlamp shadows of New York.


	3. Two Intruders

Shielded from the Mexican desert sun, a small collection of plants hung from chained baskets, or rested on the ground under a draped mesh canopy. One by one, Caliban brought a watering can to them and let a light shower of droplets cascade onto each: chives and thyme, little alpine strawberries – whatever he could get his hands on, and whatever could survive out here. Wiping his brow above his goggles with one cotton-gloved hand, he took the opportunity to duck under the shelter and fan himself with his shirts, flapping them underneath his poncho to move the air about. He peered back out through smudgy lenses, across the short walk of dry earth, to the dilapidated building he had called home for just over a year.

In truth, he was taking something of a break: while Logan was off working for a few days on a long-distance call-out, Caliban had been trying to prepare himself and gather his assets, planning for what was to come. Assuming all went well, the money from this last trip would finally bring the ‘Sunseeker fund’ up to its goal, and both Logan and Charles would sail away from his life… which meant that he needed somewhere else to live and work, to fill whatever time he had left. However, it had barely been two hours before he had escaped outside, preferring the death-trap of the Sun’s rays over everything he would have to think about otherwise. Pondering the arrangement of green leaves and stalks as he turned back to them, he noted that even with his dutiful care, they still appeared wilted and worse for wear; even then, to leave them at this point would almost certainly kill them.

He frowned, resuming his tending. Objectively, he perhaps could see why the other, older mutant would want things this way: if Logan’s life was anything like how he imagined it, then of course he would look for a way to escape it… He snorted humourlessly under his bandanna, realising that trying to empathise with the scruffy man would probably not be considered ‘staying out of his shit’ by anyone’s standards. Still, and he watched the moisture sink into the dry soil as he asked himself: why, after everything, did _this_ have to be the answer?

The surliness and belligerence of their conversation the other day had only become commonplace over the past few months. Before the Sunseeker, before there was any sort of ‘plan’… there was comfort, or as little as you could get in a place like this. The taller mutant would often find him coiled tight on his bed, screaming obscenities into the wet pillow and shivering with impotent rage and grief: a cup of strong black coffee would appear on his bedside table, and Caliban would sit next to him in the tiny, rickety chair opposite.  Some days, but not always, the stronger man could bring himself to pull his face out of the stuffed fabric and, with reassurance, sip the bitter drink. What little he spoke of afterwards bore only memories of friends and family, unrequited loved ones, and death; at this, he would find himself enveloped in a hug, face pressed into one bony shoulder. All he could hear, as more tears soaked into the moth-eaten shirt, was him laugh gruffly about “the fuckin’ irony,” whatever that meant. The bald man would just hold him there and let it come out, before the moment ended and the day had to resume.

But then, just as he had begun to process his own feelings and try to articulate them, Logan pulled back again, drawing into himself and closing the door to him. When he tried to reach out about the yacht, about the bullet? One smashed mug, his favourite, and yet another layer between them. The last time he’d seen him, earlier that morning, he hadn’t even bothered to bring it up again – though he did note with some dry mirth that the older mutant, whose eyesight he had pointed out was failing, was wearing a pair of brand-new reading glasses. Better not to mention it, but he took it as a sign; maybe he could try to bring him round when the other man got back. And try again after that, if needs must. However many times it would take, or however much time he had left before…

The stream of water ran dry, and Caliban placed the watering can back on the ground next to its charges. For a moment, he stood there with his hands on his hips, brain processes catching back up to his list of tasks. Fertiliser…? No, he had already sprinkled that in a few days ago. He adjusted his broad hat and stepped back out into the sun towards the main building – where his phone, filled with a list of old contacts, sat waiting for him. It would have to be humans now; try as he might, the only others he could feel were Charles in his water tower and Logan-

-Who was speeding towards them fast, now close enough for the tracker mutant to smell him distinctly. Given just how close, he was amazed he hadn’t noticed sooner.

Spinning round to the direction of their entrance gate, he watched the rusted metal slide open as a limousine, modern and chrome-plated, rushed through and pulled up sharply outside the door to their living space. Still dressed in his dishevelled driver’s uniform, the salt-bearded man threw himself out of the door and limped as fast as he could towards the house. Caliban rounded the corner to greet the suited man, still fumbling with the lock.

“Logan?”

“Yup.” The Canadian didn’t look back at him, focused as he was on inserting the key.

“What happened?” Making to follow Logan, who had just opened the fence and stumbled through: “Did something go wrong?”

“The job was wrong to begin with.” Distractedly, he threw the second door into the building open and marched in without turning back.

Caliban acknowledged this with a small nod: typical these days, for the man to be so lost in his own thoughts that he couldn’t partake in basic courtesy. However, this did mean they’d be able to take more time to think, and hopefully this time he might be able to get through to-

A smell.

A new smell, mixed in enough with Logan’s so as to be concealed by it. His slippered feet stepped carefully around to face the limousine: the trunk had been left open, and sitting inside were two items he couldn’t place. He squinted through the goggles, then pulled them back down to his neck to see more clearly, though the blue-tinged sunlight stung his eyes a little. Cautiously, he approached the back of the limo as the items resolved themselves: a khaki-green rucksack, too small for him or Logan, and a rubber ball of swirling, suspended primary colours – which he picked up in one hand and sniffed, feeling that presence again.

“Logan!” He called, grabbing the bag and giving it a stronger sniff, then more urgently: “LOGAN!”

“What?” The reply, irritated, came as Logan reappeared and made his way towards the heavily-clad mutant.

Caliban held the two offending objects out to him: “Who does this belong to?”

The scarred face narrowed in confusion, taking the ball with surprising care from his hand as his inscrutable off-brown eyes studied it, a slight glimmer of recognition flaring in him. The thin mutant bent down to peer deeper into the back in case anything else had been hidden inside. Seeing nothing but the felt lining of the limo, he stood back up to comment on the scent to his shorter companion – then did a double-take, watching a huge, shiny black 4x4 crawl into the compound like an armoured beetle.

“Who’s that?” He asked.

Logan span around and, upon seeing the vehicle, tensed and growled: “I thought you were supposed to see shit coming.”

“I can track mutants!” Caliban boggled at him as it drew closer. “I’m a glorified truffle pig, not a clairvoyant-”

“Go inside, keep Charles quiet-” He looked at him hurriedly: “Go! Inside! Now!”

Alarmed and confused, Caliban turned around and scurried back to the house as fast as his bent posture would allow, pulling his goggles on as he went; the car stopped behind him and he heard Logan snarl “Turn around asshole, this is private property,” to the other person as he made it through the door, holding it ajar so he could spy on what would transpire next. Obscured by the long shape of the limo, he could just make out a dirty-blond coiffure sitting above a pair of gold-framed sunglasses, tinted a bold orange colour.

“Make way!” a voice, strained and articulately English, cried out from behind.

The cloaked man jumped, glancing to the once-great Charles Xavier as he rolled up behind him, swaddled in an oversized cardigan. He rammed the tall mutant’s foot with one wheel.

“Ffff-” He stifled the yelp, then whispered harshly: “Charles!” He put one finger to his mouth over the balaclava, then pointed out through the sliver of the door: “You need to be quiet, there’s someone out there!”

“I know there’s someone out there!” Charles exclaimed, still trying to push past: “She’s the one I’ve been talking to! The new mutant! We have to make sure she’s alright!”

“SHHHH!” Caliban held out a hand in front of his elderly patient to placate him: “That’s not a mutant, he’s a hu-”

He sniffed.

The scent had reappeared – mutant, young? – currently trailing somewhere behind the walls on the other side of the plant. Folding the top of his bandana down, he sniffed again from behind the door; whoever they were, they were getting closer to the two men outside, and were likely just by their own hiding spot. Meanwhile, the intruding human was near enough now to place his right hand onto Logan’s shoulder, who recoiled and pulled it off himself… then squinted at it: what little he could see of it was artificial, fingers flexing mechanically in a rough grip.

“Logan!” the spying mutant let out under his breath, eyes wide.

 

“ _AAGH!_ ”

 

The shriek startled all of them – a metal bar flew at the stranger’s head, knocking him down. A second followed it, but he saw Logan catch it reflexively as Charles pushed past his caretaker, muttering something disparaging about the lighter-skinned man. Quickly, he adjusted his face protection back into position and tottered cautiously after the wheelchair rolling outside at pace, just as the frustrated limo driver was about to retaliate, pipe in hand.

“Logan, Logan!” the chair stopped, and Charles heaved: “This, is Laura.” Glancing back: “Caliban, come!”

Finally, he managed to catch up.

Softly: “This is Laura. This is who I’ve been telling you about.”

One hand rested up against a structural girder. A girl, no older than eleven by Caliban’s estimate, glared at the three men with deep brown eyes through long strands of dark hair. She stepped forward in a baby-blue zipped sweater, offset by a large rust-red coat, as the former professor smiled fondly at her and continued:

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Scraping together a little Spanish from his fractured memory: “He-hemos estado esperando por ti! Come.” He gestured her towards him: “It’s OK! Come.”

Wordlessly, she turned and strode over to the bearded man, who was still holding her bag. Before he could say anything, she snatched her belongings out of his hand and started back towards the two frailer men, though her attention was still fixed on the third contemptuously.

Charles repeated himself: “Laura! It’s OK. It’s OK. Come! Vete aquí!”

With that, he began to go back indoors to the living space shared by Logan and Caliban, who were both regarding her as she followed. Making room for her to go through, the hunched figure took another step back when she snapped her head to stare up at him: the intensity of her body language startled him, being treated with suspicion or – no, he considered, appraisal?

“Come! It’s OK, you can stay here Laura…” the old man’s voice trailed into the house with him, and she disappeared alongside it. Only the taller, covered mutant and the shorter, stockier one remained outside.

That, and the unconscious human laying at Logan’s feet. Now Caliban padded over to stand next to his fellow housemate, who turned the body over with one foot. Dusty from the fall, the man’s entire dusk-grey outfit screamed of martial history: combat trousers, starchy button shirt, and a heavy jacket. Obscured by a thick gold chain, the stubbly man had a vicious tattoo, a grinning skull crossed with two sturdy knives, covering the front of his throat.

He removed the goggles and set them down on his own scarfed neck: “Looks like ex-military.” Still looking down at the heaped form, the thin man continued: “Bounty hunter maybe?”

“Worse.” Logan announced bluntly, then fished out a slightly bent business card and passed it over while still watching their intruder.

Caliban’s eyes flashed over the names on the card.

 **Alkali-Transigen**.

Oh, fuck.

Feigning nonchalance: “Is he by himself?”

“Yeah, not for long.” The shorter man crouched down, pulling a pistol out from the hip-holster of – ‘Donald Pierce, Chief of Security’, the card said – and ordering: “Put him back in his ride, take him out to the wash and dump him.”

He did a double-take, voice muffled by the bandana: “What if he wakes up before I get there?”

A swift kick into Pierce’s head. The pistol, balanced in Logan’s hand, was now pointed handle-wards towards the tall mutant.

More slowly, he looked back down at the soldier, then the gun, and met his creased eyes incredulously: “Seriously, Logan?”

“What?”

“If he gets up again, do you really think that I-” He wiped one eye, started over: “I mean, I could MAYBE stand up to a small-time robber. And that is a big ‘maybe’, Logan! But if this guy is-”

“Do you WANT him to wake up?” Logan interrupted.

“No! But if they…” The corporate name on the card stared up at him accusingly. He swallowed, buried it into his pocket: “If these people are anything like you told me? What they used to do?” Looking at the gun with his contentious conversation partner: “I don’t care how small the chance of it is, the last thing you want is them getting their hands on me.”

The bearded man huffed sarcastically: “Oh, sure, so they can get you to track me ‘n Charles?”

“You and Charles… And her.”

His eyes widened: “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Right, fine, she’s a mutant.” Waving down at Pierce’s body: “Still gotta deal with him.”

“This is…” he sighed: “Logan, this is your area of expertise, not mine. All my life, I didn’t know how to fight ‘til I lived here, and I barely remember half of it! Never mind having to dump a body! Or, to reiterate, if he wakes up…?”

 

This gave the older man pause, scratching his beard and cursing to himself. He looked back to their home, with Charles and this girl tucked away inside somewhere. After thinking on it, he growled in frustration and held Caliban by both shoulders.

“OK genius, new job for you: stay here, find out what you can about her. I’ll deal with this Huckleberry-dickhead.” At this, he cast a derisive glance down at the mercenary.

“I’ll try.” His hat bobbed as he nodded, then frowned: “But, Logan, we need to talk when you get back, PROPERLY talk.” One spindly hand rested on the other man’s forearm: “And not just about her.”

It was then that the burlier man noticed his hands, his own proximity; he let go, brushing down his suit jacket and avoiding the other mutant’s washed-out gaze: “Fine, whatever.” Crouching down, he hitched up the mercenary’s knees, then pulled him up by one arm until he could drape him over his broad shoulders.

The shrouded figure watched him heft the intruder towards the parked 4x4, then came to his senses and called after him: “His gun! Do you need it?”

“Keep it,” The stronger man answered, not looking back as he reached the vehicle and bundled the lifeless form into the backseat: “I’ll text you where I am so you can come pick me up. Don’t scratch the limo.”

“I-” The front door slammed shut: “I won’t.”

Throwing up a layer of dust, the hulking black car manoeuvred itself to face the open gate and sped away into the shimmering midday haze. Caliban watched, wordlessly, as it disappeared from his view… but not his nose. Against the nearly-empty backdrop, the tell-tale scent of Logan (sweat, and rust-metal, and uniquely unmistakably _him_ ) wafted into him even at this distance. Not until it passed out of scent, and settled in his mind’s eye, did he turn and shuffle back towards the warehouse, where Charles waited for him with the…

He sniffed the air, still boggling.

With the new mutant.

From inside his pocket, one corner of the business card stabbed into his side as he closed the door.

 

* * *

 

 

The car sped along, and Donald Pierce dreamed.

To be honest, he hadn’t quite gotten to grips with the whole thing yet: the arm worked pretty well… with some extra quirks. This other stuff, though – he felt himself being knitted back together slowly and carefully by an army of cellular robots; not quite the healing factor he’d read about, but more than enough to deal with the swelling in his brain. Y’know, that the girl half his size had given to him?

He regarded the augmented neural software in front of him, indistinct and surreal, as simple options were laid out in front of him: he imagined grabbing hold of his choices, pulling them into himself.

Unbeknownst to his captor, a pair of small LEDs, attached to a satellite transmitter in the man’s steel-barred arm, flickered on.

That’ll show him.

 

* * *

 

 

Far away, a white-collared grey-tied man typed away innocuously on his office computer, medical journals lining his walls.

A notification appeared, catching his eye. Curious, the man thought to himself, that his ‘distress’ software was finally being put to some use... by Pierce, of all people. As he clicked, his otherwise-normal desktop flickered and changed, replaced by a simplified user interface. It only displayed two things: a shifting set of longitudinal and latitudinal co-ordinates, and a short IRC message. He glanced over it, then considered.

It read: “X-1, at location.”

They’d known where he was, of course, but had rather hoped that he could have mellowed down after the years had taken their toll.

 No matter: he was sure he could resolve this.

His finger tapped efficiently over his landline buttons, holding the receiver to his ear as it dialled. When the line picked up, he enunciated: “Hello, could I ask you to get everything ready?”

With a knowing smile:

“I think it’s time for a field test.”


	4. Charity, and an Offer

With the next winter came a great flurry of snow, falling in a frosty sheet across the city. Illuminated by strings and shapes of soft colourful lights, it danced on every street corner it could touch – including this one, where a small café sat brimmed with baked foodstuffs, beverages, and promises of warmth. A large pane of window glass let the orange light out to touch the still white scene on the other side of the street. Tall lamps, too early in the evening to be lit, stood prone; a pay phone sat innocuously against the corner, above which a vent poured clouds of vapor up past the drab walls of an office building.

Where Caliban squatted, shivering on its doorway steps, looking back across to the café.

No money, and certainly no point of going in because of it – the best he could hope for was for the occasional draft of soothing air to brush his face, a reprieve from the chilly weather. Catching a whiff of the food, he patted down the insistent groan inside his stomach and pulled his scarf closer to his face; then, he hunkered down against the cold surface of the steps, drawing his head into his limbs. His only consolation, what little it be to him, was that he had remained relatively unmolested for his appearance (or genes) these past months.

“Hey.”

“Huh?” The voice startled him; he blinked bleary-eyed at the figure standing a few feet away.

A man, who must have been in his early 40’s, held a hand out to his crouched position. His head, with a close-cropped haircut tapering to a small point, poked out from a navy hoodie wrapped in a light tan jacket. Casual denim jeans creased as he bent down to offer the outstretched palm to him: a gold watch gleamed around his wrist, as shiny as his black leather shoes. He spoke with a nondescript Mid-West accent.

“I saw you eyeballing that bar over there, figured you probably didn’t wanna be freezing your ass off down here?”

“I…” Caliban peered at him suspiciously: “Who are you?”

The hand turned over to have its palm up, a non-threatening gesture, as the man smiled and shrugged: “Like I said, just saw you, thought you could do with a drink and a snack at least?” He nodded towards the door to the café, framing its warm glow against the afternoon’s twilight.

Another growl in his gut. He looked to the café, then to him, his better judgement being pushed down his hierarchy of needs. A murmur: “I’m- I don’t have anything to pay you-”

“On me, buddy!” A smile to match the light from the coffee house: “C’mon, you look like you’re gonna waste away!”

Instead of taking the offered hand, the covert mutant pushed himself off the step with both palms, then staggered clumsily to his feet.

“Huh! Tall.”

He huffed: “I get that a lot.”

The aroma of coffee wrapped around him with the raised temperature as he and the stranger walked in; the clatter of metal jugs and the froth of steaming milk greeted their entrance. A few tables were scattered with other customers, who stirred their spoons and engaged in idle chit-chat which, besides a brief glance at the new arrivals, carried on uninterrupted. Thick, curved glass shielded the sweet options from its patrons: the shelves were lined with assorted pastries, cakes, shortbreads, and biscuits – no, Caliban remembered, cookies. The slang still got away from him sometimes, he thought as he removed his hat.

A barista in her twenties, about his own age, turned to the two of them: “Hi!” she beamed: “What can I get you boys?”

“Just a flat white for myself” the stranger replied with a pleasant smile. He motioned to his beneficiary: “What’ll you have?”

“Uh…” Glancing at the options, he replied quickly: “Americano and a croissant, please?”

“You want anything with that?”

“Just butter, thanks.” He looked to the stranger and barista seeking confirmation, as if he’d just been put to some test.

The barista just noted it down on her pad, and the stranger, after settling the bill up-front, ushered his guest to a little two-seater table and pulled a rickety metal chair out for himself. After an awkward moment’s hesitation, the thin man followed suit, folding himself into the seat opposite. Seeing him take a frothy sip from his own coffee, Caliban cut open his croissant with the knife provided, and stuck the butter inside of it before taking a ravenous bite from it – then paused, looking away from his companion in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry about it! I wouldn’t expect you to pace yourself.”

The mutant nodded briskly in thanks, finishing up the fluffy folds of pastry.

“Good?”

He nodded – then hiccupped from the starch, reaching for his coffee to drink away the rising sensation in his lungs. Taking a pause, he confirmed the spasms had stopped and gave a little thumbs-up.

Across from him, the man chuckled, and asked: “So, you’re a Brit?”

“English, yeah.”

“How long’ve you been living over here, then?”

“About five years. Going really well.” He gestured to himself sarcastically.

“Huh.” A moment passed. “If it’s that bad, how come you never went back home?”

Fingers caged around the hot beverage, drew it closer: “Couldn’t afford it. Besides,” Staring out the window to the quiet snowscape: “Not worth going back. What I left behind… I kind of want it to stay there.”

“Lemme guess,” A spoon cut through the surface of the latte: “Family trouble?”

“Something like that.”

“They didn’t like that you’re a mutant?”

His hands gripped the mug suddenly, eyes darting back to his conversation partner – who he didn’t even know, and who had just potentially outed him to the entire restaurant. Chair legs squeaked beneath him as he pushed away, ready to leave.

“Oh, hey, sorry!” The man put up two empty hands, apologising. “You don’t have to go back outside, I’m not- I didn’t mean anything by it, sorry.”

Warily: “How did you…”

“I thought at first with the skin tone that you were, y’know, just an albino. But,” he pointed to Caliban’s head: “When you looked up at me earlier you had this-” he flicked a hand in front of his own face: “Some kinda eye-shine? Most people I know only get a little red-eye from photos, so I guessed that meant you were-”

“One of _them_ , yeah.”

“Didn’t wanna startle you. Finish your coffee if you want?” He beamed sincerely at the taller gentleman.

The door was only a short sprint away – he could be out in an instant –but would that not only take him out into the unforgiving cold again? He frowned, then sighed: fine. He could suffer this man’s company if it meant he could stay in the comfort of the café for a little while longer. Couldn’t be worse than a snapping police dog, right?

The atmosphere relaxed a little as the stranger watched the long-limbed mutant scrape his chair back into place and take a sip from the still-warm cup.

“So…” The man carried on: “What do you- if you don’t mind my asking, what’s your…?”

“I’d rather not, sorry.” His shoulders hunched: “It’s a little…”

 “Ah! Gotcha,” He leaned back, waved a hand down: “Want me to get off the topic?”

“If that’s OK with you.” Relaxing in his chair, the pale man diverted: “So what do you…”

He paused. A television set, no more than 12 inches across, had been running in the background as they sat in the café. Now, a news report flickered on-screen. Both men, as well as the rest of the patrons, turned to pay it heed.

“ _People are advised to stay indoors tonight after another string of attacks throughout New York, according to the Office of Public Affairs. While the perpetrators have yet to step forward and claim the incidents, the so-called ‘Brotherhood of Mutants’ are considered the prime suspects by the authorities following a video by the group which circulated online…_ ”

Pulling his attention away, the stranger saw Caliban’s face turn grey, with one hand digging its fingers into the edge of the table: “You okay?”

The mutant didn’t respond.

He followed his guest’s bulging blue gaze to the screen, where shaky cameras picked up a few distant figures causing havoc. With concern: “Those guys, huh?”

Staring ahead: “Yep.”

“Not a fan?”

“They-” Closing his eyes and shaking his head: “My family- not, not my old family, my-” He sighed: “I had this group of mutants I was in, my friends, but they got… indoctrinated by these eugenicist pricks.”

“Are they now…?” The man pointed to the chaos on the television.

Caliban peered at it. “One of them, my best friend…” he saw a car get lifted, thrown like a paperweight: “She had the strength of a bear.”

Hesitantly: “I’m sorry.”

The taller man rubbed his eyes as it let itself out: “There were children, too; I just wanted to- to get some money together, and I was gonna take them with me. Keep them safe.” Leaning back in his chair, he gestured wide: “For all the good it’s done! I mean, look at me… Look at this.” His arms folded together, resigned, and he kept watching events unfold on the little set.

There was a long pause as the stranger considered the man in front of him, whose eyes remained fixed to the TV. His posture shifted, straightened.

“What if I told you,” He leaned forwards: “That there’s something you could do to help stop this?”

Still distracted: “Hmm?”

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small, smart card from his pocket: “There’s lots of people out there trying to bring them down, but they’ll need all the help they can get.” He slid the card across the table: “Someone like you, a mutant, a mutant tracker at that, could end this before it gets any worse-”

Icy eyes whipped round: “I didn’t tell you that.”

“Tell me wh-”

“What my powers were.” He stood up straight, turned –

  * Then noticed the café was utterly empty.



“I meant what I said earlier. I don’t mean any harm.” The man stayed in his seat, where Caliban could see the gleam of his leather shoes even under the shadow of the table: “But after that fiasco with the police a couple of years back, did you really think we weren’t gonna keep tabs on you guys?”

“We weren’t – we didn’t do anything!” Panic rising, stuck in place: “The whole thing was just a misunderstanding!”

“I know that!” Softening: “I know that. Your friends,” He gestured back to the news: “Looks like they got led down a path of extremism, and it’s unfortunate! But you saw it for what it was, and you did the right thing in getting out of there.”

“I…”

“Here,” With one hand, the man propped up the card with Caliban’s cup, and continued: “We’re offering anything you need: food, shelter, cash, you name it. But we need your help.”

Perturbed, but aware that he hadn’t quite yet been bundled into the back of a van, the mutant approached the table again carefully: “What do you want from me?”

“With your power, you found your friends. We need you to find our enemies. YOUR enemies.”

“My-”

“You don’t have to say anything right now, don’t worry.” Now the man stood up, pulled another $10 note from his pocket, and left it on the table.

“What’s that for?”

“Just a parting gift. You could get some more food, or another drink, or...” He stepped past the stooped man and began to walk out of the door, glancing at the phone booth outside then back to him: “Well, I’ll let you decide that. Goodbye.”

The stranger – the agent – walked back out into the evening’s flurry, footprints pressing into the snow as he went on his way.

Silently, Caliban took himself back to his chair and sat down again, legs shaking under the table. He regarded the money still waiting on the surface, and the card stood neatly in front of him; pocketing the former, he lifted the dollar-green card up to read it. Absently, he noted the barista return to her counter as he skimmed the contents.

 

* * *

 

**ALKALI GROUP**

In association with the

DEPARTMENT OF DOMESTIC SECURITY AND DEFENSE

 **DO NOT REDISTRIBUTE:** Failure to comply will result in punitive measures.

Tel **202-324-3000**

Refer to code 4GV84JD47GJ3 during conversation. 

* * *

 

The television continued with more footage from the attacks, and Caliban peered at the distant shapes: with relief, he noted that none of the attackers were children. Yet.

Across the road from him, he could see the outline of the payphone, highlighted by the fluorescent light stuck in the booth ceiling. The sky darkened and the street lamps flickered on, deepening the shadows where they could not reach. He ordered another drink, collected his change, and stayed the last 15 minutes before finally heading back to the other side.

 

What choice did he have?


End file.
